Aftermath
by fortytworedvines
Summary: Post episode 3. Sherlock exploded the bomb pack. Now he's in hospital and John is still unconscious. Sherlock/John


_A/N. I don't own Sherlock. If I did, season 2 would be filled with epic John/Sherlock moments._

xoxox

Aftermath

Boom! The explosion in his dream startled Sherlock out of his fitful sleep and he shifted uneasily on the uncomfortable hospital chair. His arm broken, in a sling, and a bandage wrapped round his head; Sherlock was not looking good. The ward was dark but one of the night nurses noticed his movement.

"Dear," she said, motherly, "You really ought to be in your bed. This isn't good for you."

He didn't look at her. "No. I'm staying here."

She didn't bother to argue; at shift handover all the nurses had been told about this man and how he had stayed in that chair virtually still for the past forty eight hours. She moved away. Sherlock kept his gaze trained on the figure in the bed. He had been asleep for an hour, he calculated, and John Watson looked exactly the same. He lay in the bed, motionless and deathly pale. Unconscious. The only sounds were the constant beeping of monitors and, if Sherlock listened hard, the quiet noise of John's breathing.

How had they got here? It felt like a nightmare. John with explosives strapped to his chest, Moriaty letting them go, then coming back and there had been rifles trained on them both. Then Sherlock had called Moriaty's bluff and exploded the pack. But John had been behind him so how was it fair that he was fine, barring minor injuries, and John still wasn't conscious? It shouldn't have happened this way.

Sarah had visited. Crying, nearly hysterical, in shock, calling Sherlock all the names under the sun for doing this to John. She had knelt by the bedside, stroking John's hair and whispering that she loved him and he had to wake up now, please. She had objected when visiting hours ended and the nurses asked her to leave.

"But he gets to stay!" she cried, gesturing at Sherlock.

"Mr Holmes is a patient," they had replied, "and he really ought to be in his own bed."

Throughout all this, Sherlock hadn't uttered a word, and he had only moved from his chair by John's bedside when bodily functions required it. John looked… so pale. Sherlock remembered claiming that he hadn't got a heart, yet here he was keeping vigil. He rationalised that it was because he had never had a partner, a work colleague, before. And John had been at his side, solved cases with him, fought with him, risked his life for him.

John had joked, in that brief moment of relief before Moriaty returned, that if people had seen Sherlock pulling his clothes off him in a darkened swimming pool, they might talk. Sherlock remembered the twinge he had felt in his chest at that. He scanned John's face; light brown curly hair, wide mouth and average sized nose. If he had walked past him as a stranger in the street, he would not have looked twice. But now all he wanted was for those eyes to open and for John to make some silly remark.

The back of the chair was digging into him and his arm hurt a lot, but he was so tired. He closed his eyes and let himself drift off into a world of nightmares.

An absence of sound awoke him. The incessant beeping had stopped. In a flash he was out of his chair, yelling for a nurse and still subconsciously noting that it must be morning because soft daylight was streaming in the windows.

A nurse rushed into the cubicle, but stopped and laughed as she reached the bedside. "It's only the monitor falling off his thumb." She explained, as she replaced it gently. She smiled up at the tall man beside her. "Glad to see you got some sleep last night, Mr Holmes."

He acknowledged her with a nod. Was it his imagination or was John looking more pink, more healthy, now? He sat himself cautiously on the side of the bed.

"Come on John, wake up." He murmured. He picked up John's hand, checked the monitor was still in place, he didn't want such a nasty shock again. John had rough hands, much rougher than a doctor would usually have, he noted. Lost in analytical thought, he didn't even notice that he was stroking John's hand with long, gentle, fingers. Suddenly John shifted, just a smidgeon, and made a little murmuring noise. And in that instant Sherlock realised what he really felt for his colleague, his room mate, his friend. He could feel his heart thundering in his chest, tears pricking in his eyes. He clasped John's hand to him, desperately.

"Come on John," how he wanted those eyes to open, "I've got something I need to tell you."

Sherlock grew aware of a sense of anticipation in the ward, heard cubicle curtains being opened and the sound of voices in the corridor.

"Visiting hours!" called the cheery ward manager.

Sherlock dropped John's hand as if it scalded him and shifted reluctantly back to the uncomfortable chair. Not a moment too soon, as the next second Sarah had appeared through the curtains.

"Oh John! Hasn't he woken up yet?" she asked Sherlock. He shook his head mutely. Watching Sarah fuss round John was acutely painful. _He_ wanted to be the one plumping his pillows and kissing his forehead and whispering in his ear. But he was only a work colleague and Sarah was John's 'other half'. He growled softly and Sarah turned to him, surprised.

"Arm hurts." He explained, and it did hurt, just not half as much as the pain in his heart.

For two hours, Sarah and Sherlock sat and watched John. He from his uncomfortable chair, her perched on the bed, her hand around John's. And at length, they were rewarded.

John squeezed Sarah's hand, his eyelids fluttered, he groaned and opened his eyes. He was looking straight at his room mate. "Sherlock…" he rasped.

And then Sarah cried, "John, oh John!" and John turned his head to her with a smile and she leaned down, kissed him, clung to him and told him how much she loved him.

Sherlock watched in silence for a few minutes, then stood up abruptly.

"Where are you going?" John managed to ask.

"Back to bed." He yanked the curtains vigorously as he left. Then he realised that he had no idea which bed was his, as he had never actually been in it, and had to ask the young student nurse who smiled far too much for his liking. It turned out to be at the other end of the ward. He sat down on it sulkily, swung his legs up and arranged himself under the covers with difficulty. His arm felt heavy and useless in its cast and his head ached.

His heart was sad and his mind full of painful thoughts about John and his girlfriend, but he hadn't been in a bed for days and despite his best efforts to stay awake, his eyes closed.

He woke up to John Watson sitting in his chair, wearing a hospital gown and glaring at him.

"You just left? Don't you want to know how I am? _Don't you even care?_" John's voice got louder and as he yelled the last words, one of the nurses left her station and hurried down the ward.

('Long term relationship, wants to get married, recent holiday abroad' Sherlock's mind told him automatically. Good to find out it was working properly again.)

The nurse put a gentle hand on John's shoulder. "My dear, he sat by your bed for two days. Barely moved." She looked sympathetically at Sherlock, "We can tell you: He does care."

John stared up at her, taken aback. "Oh."

She squeezed his shoulder and left, drawing the curtains around them as she did.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably under John's gaze.

"Two days, Sherlock?"

"I…" he trailed off, "I'm glad you're awake." He stared at John, willing him to understand, to not make him spell this out. He felt disadvantaged lying down, began to push himself into a sitting position but it was difficult with one arm in a sling. John jumped out of his chair, pulled the pillows up and settled them behind Sherlock's back.

"Thank you." He murmured. John did not sit down on the chair again, instead seating himself on the bed, facing Sherlock.

"I" they both said together, and John laughed.

"Are you feeling alright?" Sherlock asked him. John shrugged.

"I've been a lot worse. How about you?"

"This is the first time I've ever broken a bone. It's an interesting experience."

"Only you could describe it as interesting." John moved his hand to cover Sherlock's and the feel of it sent a shock through Sherlock's body. They both stared at their hands, then back at each other.

Careful not to break eye contact, Sherlock moved his hand so that their fingers were entwined.

"Oh." Said John softly. He leant forward, then hesitated. But Sherlock nodded, and then simultaneously they closed the gap between them and John's lips pressed on Sherlocks, gentle at first then more firmly. Sherlock groaned quietly, moved his good hand to stroke John's hair. John drew back from the kiss, licked his lips uncertainly.

"Sherlock," he whispered, scanning his friend's face. Then he stood abruptly. "I have to… go…" he yanked the curtains and positively fled back up the ward to his own cubicle.

Sherlock watched him silently, pressed his fingers to his lips. That had been a good kiss. Not that he was hugely experienced in the ways of kissing, but the way he had felt all tingly and happy, surely that was good? And John had kissed _him_ too to so why had he run off like that? But of course, he had a girlfriend. Why would he want somebody as dysfunctional as Sherlock when he had a beautiful girl like Sarah? A grimace passed over his face.

Then he heard raised voices and Sarah shouting, "But I love you John!" and then there was a lot of crying and Sarah ran out of the ward.

John appeared in Sherlock's line of sight suddenly and sheepishly. "I knew as soon as I woke up, Sherlock."

"Knew what?"

John sat back on the bed, a smile playing on his lips. "That I didn't want Sarah to be there, that I just wanted you." He looked down embarrassed. "I wanted you to kiss me. When you tore the bomb off me, I mean." He looked back at Sherlock and a bright blush was staining his cheeks. "All I wanted in that moment was for you to kiss me and hold me."

It was Sherlock's turn to blush. "When we get home, can I make my deplorable lack of judgement up to you?"

John stood and pulled the curtains round the bed again; cocooning them in a private, new, world. "I think it would be better if you started now."

At that Sherlock reached up, grabbed him and pressed his lips against John's, nibbling his lower lip and the merest suggestion of a tongue playing against John's mouth. He pulled back reluctantly, stroked John's cheek, pressed their foreheads together. Whispered, "I'm so very glad you woke up."


End file.
